


Photographs

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Series: The Greatest Game [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Finally, First Kiss, Fluff, Idiots, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Photos, awwww, relationship, these two idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 15:07:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1945746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John takes photos now.  Sherlock only has one photo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Photographs

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is based on an entry from [ John’s blog ](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/26april) that somebody posted to tumblr.  
> “I was going through my phone and I found a few pictures I'd taken during some of our cases.  
> It might seem a bit odd but I've hardly any pictures of him. I remember him once saying how everybody was so busy photographing their lives for Facebook and Twitter that they were forgetting how to live. 'I'm far too busy to be instagramming, John!'”  
> Holy sad face. 
> 
> And then also [ THIS ](http://br0-harry.deviantart.com/art/kiss-animation-monochrome-285981690), by the FANTASTICAL [ br0-harry ](http://br0-harry.tumblr.com/) because HOLY SHIT, YOU GUYS.

John was never a photographer.   He never felt the need to capture moments, and frankly, there weren’t many moments worth capturing. His parents were never big on photographs either, and John couldn’t blame them or help feeling relieved that his childhood hadn’t been memorialized like so many of his friends’ childhoods had been. It’s not that John’s childhood was particularly bad—it wasn’t good, per se, but not bad—it was just so normal. So dull. Nothing out of the ordinary happened. Nothing exciting. Nothing worth memorializing.

John had a few photographs from university, a few from the army. Mostly of the regimen, a few of him and James Sholto, his former commander.  One or two of Mike Stamford, when he was significantly slimmer, on their last day at Bart’s. The big moments, and even those were normal.

Then John’s life became extraordinary, filled with many moments worth memorializing, but John was too busy to bother. Sherlock once told him that so many people spent so much time photographing their lives, they never lived it. Quite deep, for a man who once shot at the wall because he was bored.

After Sherlock “died,” John was devastated to discover he had very few photographs of Sherlock, even alone. And part of him knew Sherlock was right in what he said, John had been so busy living life that he hadn’t bothered to document it. But there was so little tangible evidence to look back on, to remind John that Sherlock had existed and been a part of his life. There were mornings when he tore apart his flat, after a nightmare, looking for something, _anything_ to confirm that the life they shared had actually existed. When Greg brought John the outtakes of the birthday video Sherlock had made for him—the original John had stupidly destroyed—he cherished it above all things. Several copies were saved to his laptop, several more burned to DVD. John even bought a keychain thumb drive so he could carry it with him wherever he went.   When John awoke from the usual nightmares, he would escape the bedroom and Mary’s cooing to watch the video.

When Sherlock returned, John had endeavored to take more photos. Thank goodness for the modern convenience of camera phones, the bloody bastard was never the wiser. Or so John hoped. He took a photo whenever he was at Baker Street. Whenever they were at a crime scene. He made Sherlock stand for numerous photos on his wedding day.   Mary had even complained—light-heartedly they had assumed at the time—that there were as many photos of the groom and best man as there were the bride and the groom.

John also saves newspaper clippings, any article that gets a candid photo of the detective. He’s even taken to doing a quick search of social media websites a few times a week to see if anyone has photographed Sherlock. There are numerous pictures of Sherlock in hospital after he was shot, usually when he was asleep, and several from his continued recovery back in Baker Street. When John returned to the flat after the showdown with AGRA, he had insisted on creating a photo documentary of the entire experience. Sherlock hadn’t been pleased.

_“Honestly John, you’re only moving your clothes back.”_

_“Sherlock, relax. It’s fun!”_

_“Why? Why bother? You barely left. This is ridiculous.”_

_“Oh, I think it’s sweet,” Mrs. Hudson had chirped as she dropped off a sponge cake. “My boys, back together again! John, print me some copies. I’ve been doing the scrapbooking, you know!”_

_Sherlock had rolled his eyes so hard John was afraid they’d get stuck in the back of his head._

But John continued to take photos. It never reached compulsion-level, but John would be damned if something happened to Sherlock—he would always do his best to make sure nothing ever did, but regardless—John would be damned if he didn’t have more to remember him by.

And the thumb drive was still on his key chain.

***

The case they just finished was DISGUSTING. There’s no other way to describe it. Chasing a kidnapper through the sewers, only to end up in a drainage pipe into the Thames. Disgusting. Of course, it had been Sherlock who insisted on jumping in, leaving John to follow after him while Greg remained above ground, shaking his head and fearing the sort of paperwork he would have to fill out if John and Sherlock were discovered the next day floating face down in the river. The stench of human waste and fetid rainwater, leaking grates from the London streets, bobbing torches and bullets ricocheting off the bricks while they had run, dodged, and ducked. It had been a close call. Several, in fact.

It was the best night John had had in a long time. Like the old days, before Sherlock was away, before Mary. Before Moriarty had once again returned to loom over their lives.

Oh, but it was gross. And now, as they trudge up the stairs to the flat, John is wondering what sort of diseases they picked up. Of course, it doesn’t help that the line was right under Broad Street, and John’s doctor mind can’t help but think back to the days of cholera in London. Who knows what they picked up.

And they both REEK.

“Sherlock, you smell like a public toilet.”

“Honestly, John, so do you.”

“Yes, well. We got him, eh?” John shrugs out of his coat, thinks twice about hanging it up on the hook. “Um, perhaps we should bag these, get them cleaned.”

“Mmmm.” Sherlock removes his as well, drops it on the floor. “I need a bath.”

“I think we both do—oh!” John picks up the Belstaff, grimaces and holds it away from himself in disgust before dropping it again. “Hurry. I need one too.”

“Yes, yes.” Sherlock is already on his way to the bathroom, stripping his clothes off as he goes. It’s an old habit he developed in the months he was living alone at Baker Street, removing his clothes and throwing them on the floor on his way to the loo. He didn’t break it when John returned, not that John is complaining. Well, John is complaining, about the fact that he has to follow Sherlock and pick up his clothes. “Chinese, John!”

Two hours, two long hot showers, and several bins of take away later, Sherlock is sprawled prone on the sofa, deep in who knows what. His skin is still a delightful pink from hot water and scrubbing; Sherlock hates being dirty. John rummages around in the kitchen-slash-Sherlock’s-laboratory, and finds what he’s looking for: gloves.

“You know, I think this is the dirtiest case we’ve ever been on.” John bends and picks Sherlock’s trousers off the floor, throws them in a bag. He actually did as Sherlock did and just dropped his clothes when he removed them, loathe to let them touch anything other than floor that could be thoroughly disinfected. “We’ll need to wash the floor tomorrow. And wash your feet before you get into bed!”

Sherlock doesn’t answer.

John goes into the living room, picks his coat up off the floor. He grabs the Belstaff as well, takes it into the kitchen. He doesn’t want anything on the rug.   John rummages around in his coat pocket, removing his gun, keys. The thumb drive is still attached, and it looks relatively unscathed. John will check it tomorrow. If it’s gone, he’ll just pick up a new one and reload the video. Once he’s sure the pockets are clear, into the bag of filth it goes.

Next up, the Belstaff. Of all the clothes, this one smells the worst. Wool. John holds it at arm’s length and reaches into the pockets. Keys, knife. The other side. Another knife, candy—that will go in the trash—a single glove (?) and for some reason, a small glass vial. Inside pockets. One yields a pencil and Sherlock’s notepad, damp and smelly and John is sure, encrusted with coliform bacteria. He places it in the sink and makes a mental note to research how to sterilize paper without ruining what is written. Perhaps the autoclave at the clinic. Next inside pocket. Another pen, and a folded piece of paper. No, not paper, it’s thicker than paper. John pulls it out.

He unfolds it, and his mouth drops open. It’s a photograph.

It’s a photograph of John.

The edges are torn and ragged. The photo is faded, a crease worn in the middle from being repeatedly unfolded and refolded. It’s taken a beating, obviously wet and dried several times over, and John sees a few brownish spots in one corner that he suspiciously thinks may be blood. But it’s unmistakably John, clearly taken at one of the numerous press conferences they attended before Sherlock went away.

John swallows hard. Sherlock has a photo of John in his coat. John’s hand trembles.

“Sh—sh—Sherlock!” John stutters from the kitchen, barely a whisper. “SHERLOCK!”

No answer.

John goes into the sitting room. “Sherlock.”

Still no answer.

“Sherlock!” John goes over to the sofa, shakes Sherlock’s shoulder. John is still shaking.

“What, John? I’m thi—oh, god, what is that?” Sherlock opens his eyes and sniffs. “That is awful. John, wash it.”

“Sh—Sherlock, what is this?”

“It’s a coat, John. And it smells awful.”

“No, Sherlock. THIS.” John thrusts the photo in Sherlock’s face. His eyes widen minutely, and he doesn’t say anything.

John doesn’t move. He sniffs, hard, arm still outstretched, as Sherlock slowly sits up. His eyes are closed.

“John, I-I have an explanation.”

“What is this Sherlock.” It’s not a question.

“It’s, it’s a photograph. Obviously.” Sherlock is choosing his words carefully. His eyes open, and they look hesitant. He’s not looking at John. He swallows hard.

“Obviously,” John mimics. “Why is it in your coat, Sherlock? Why do you have a photograph of me?”

“Because. Because I—”

“Sherlock!” John is breathless. He wants to hope but he doesn’t dare. “It’s old, it’s been repeatedly folded. Why is this in your coat?”

Sherlock’s eyes drop to his lap and he mumbles something.

“What?”

“I always carry it with me.” Sherlock’s eyes close. “So I can remember.”

“Jesus Christ.” John drops to his knees in front of the sofa. “Sherlock…”

“Please don’t be upset. I know it’s strange, I know. I know I’m a freak, that it’s ridiculous. But I needed to remember, John.” Sherlock is barely whispering, his deep voice hardly a murmur. “When I was away, I needed to remember.” His eyes open, and they are so bare, so raw, John has to fight the urge to look away it’s almost too much. “It was all I had. I had to remember why I was doing what I was doing. This helped.”

“Sherlock.”

“Please don’t be mad. I’ll throw it away. I’m back, after all.” Sherlock smiles sadly, resigned. “I don’t need to remember anymore.”

“Sherlock.” John’s head drops, he squeezes his eyes closed. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock.”

“Don’t, John.” Sherlock makes a move to snatch the photo, but John is too fast.

“No. NO.” He pulls his hand away, sets the photo on the coffee table. Then his hand comes up to Sherlock’s face. His fingers gently touch one sharp cheekbone, trail down to his jaw. Sherlock flinches and inhales sharply. John’s other hand comes up to Sherlock’s face. He holds him, eyes him for one moment.

“John….”

“Oh, Sherlock.” John’s hands cup his jaw, and he leans in. He might as well. How can he not? Knowing this, knowing Sherlock depended on a photo, a FUCKING PHOTO, to get him through the hell that was his time away, and it worked? John has never been more sure in his life. Now. John will lay his heart at Sherlock’s feet and he knows it will be accepted. He knows this is the perfect moment, and finally, finally this ridiculous stalemate will end. It’s about time.

John leans in, eyes open, and watches as Sherlock’s eyes close right as his lips ghost against his. A soft press, dry and chaste. But warm and electric and wonderful. John had imagined what it would be like to kiss Sherlock, to kiss those full lips, touch that perfect Cupid’s bow with his mouth, and it doesn’t compare. Sherlock stiffens and shudders as John’s mouth rests on his, firm and deliberate.  

Sparks. Flashes. Light and heat flare, just from a simple touch of lips.

John lets his mouth rest for a few moments, before pulling away and stroking both thumbs across Sherlock’s cheeks, feeling the sharp lines of his face.

“John,” Sherlock’s eyes open, wide and unsure and full of wonder.

“Sherlock.” John simply smiles, a warm John-smile, and Sherlock’s eyebrows raise in surprise. John doesn’t let go of his face. He leans in again, another press of lips. John's mouth opens this time, positioning lips, seeking entrance with his tongue. More sparks fly.

Finally.

**Author's Note:**

> Next up, porn. Porny porn porn. >:)


End file.
